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I Served With Hitler in the Trenches 1st Edition Hans Von Mend
The rights of Hans Mend to be identified as Author and Graham Harris as Translator of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Contents
Foreword
Introduction
Mobilisation
In the Heavy Cavalry Barracks
With the List Regiment
March to the Front
Death of Colonel List
With Adolf Hitler in Wytschaete
Bethlehem’s Farm
Static Warfare
In the Monastery at Messines
Christmas, 1914 with Adolf Hitler
1915
Burst of Fire at Neuve Chapelle
Front Line at Fromelles
9 May 1915
Army Report, 9 May 1915
Long Hans
Chateau La Vallée
25 September 1915
Night Bath in the Castle Moat at Ligny
Experiences in Wavrin
Penetration of the English
Winter in Flanders
Trip into the Communications Zone
Christmas, 1915 in Fournes
New Year’s Eve, 1915
1916
An Unsuccessful Hunt
Medical Service
Farewell from the Regiment
Battle of 19 and 20 July at Fromelles
Homecoming
Foreword
There is a yawning gap in literature about Adolf Hitler. When, in the postwar era, Adolf Hitler’s star appeared in the political sky, no one asked where he had come from. His thoughts and words were prophecies, to one a portent, to many others his views and morality were infinitely incomprehensible. In the meantime, Adolf Hitler became leader of approximately 10 million Germans who were exposed to his words. As economic and political necessity intensified, his supporters quadrupled. The question of where the new leader comes from is quite understandable. Many want to know where Adolf Hitler was during the war years and what he achieved there.
It is a well-known thing that men who pursue the world war waste no words over it. They simply do their great patriotic duty. It came to be that the glorious List regiment, which set out with Adolf Hitler, suffered such heavy losses there were only a few survivors, which, to a certain extent, mirrors the experiences and activities of Adolf Hitler during this time. After much effort I succeeded in discovering a martyr and a comrade who fought side by side and suffered with Adolf Hitler. However, there was a sense of desolation and emptiness around the old heroic List comrades. Reinforced again and again, commander after commander lost, officers of all ranks dead or badly wounded, best friends and comrades there.
A truly brave horseman and front-line soldier, drawn into the field with five brothers and who lost three of them, broke his silence after more than a decade. These are recollections of a simple soldier, of a horseman through and through. The reputation of this man which, because of his achievements, earned him the name ‘The despatch rider of the List regiment’, has almost become legendary. These memorable experiences will be described in this book as fully as possible. These accounts form only a small part, with pictures of the positions and localities, of Adolf Hitler’s
story, a simple soldier, tirelessly doing his duty, uncomplainingly, as a messenger, day and night, with exemplary heroism.
This book aims to convey to the German people small extracts about the German Fatherland from the unknown years of comrade-in-arms Adolf Hitler. These pages are written to establish the truth.
Introduction
In this book I hope to enlighten the German nation about Hitler as a frontline soldier. As a friend, I often had the opportunity of hearing his comments about the war, observing his bravery and becoming familiar with his exemplary qualities.
In writing this book I definitely do not seek to serve any party or other and my views are independent. The book is solely about the soldier Adolf Hitler, who over time I formed a comradeship with only the front-line soldier understands. Fervent love for his greater Fatherland compelled him to incredible achievements in the field. It was long decided for him who the real enemy of our people was, and still is. He has fought persistently to the present day against this destructive power.
In Germany, as abroad, there are contradictory judgements of Adolf Hitler. Many of his opponents see in him a political agitator, who smuggled himself into Germany after the war to set himself up as a political messiah. I want to prove here that he was the same in the field as today, brave, fearless, outstanding.
The Author
Mobilisation
It was 28 July 1914 when I received my call-up in Frankfurt. I was a young reservist, had served actively in the 2nd Uhlan regiment in Ansbach and, as result, had to report there in three days’ time. However, I lay in hospital following a serious fall from a horse, which is why I could not comply immediately with my call-up; my injuries had still not healed.
Despite the greatest difficulties, I, nevertheless, pursued my aim of joining the cavalry. With the heart and soul of a professional horseman I wanted to go into the field with my Uhlans. Like iron to a magnet, so my regiment pulled together, and even the strongest impediment could not keep me from my path. I set out ignoring all pain.
Our regiment was full of reservists and civilians from the various locations, refugees who returned from abroad bearing placards with the message: ‘Reservist from England, Belgium, France’, there were even Italians among us, whose only concern was to reach their homeland early enough to be able to surrender to their troops. One of them said in good German: ‘Do you know that in three days, the Italian fleet is setting sail, I have served in it and must be in Venice in two days.’ Unfortunately, the fleet did not have such allies upon its return.
Everyone was excited, both soldiers and civilians, to find themselves in a state of war. Every German carried in their consciousness that their nation would win. We really looked forward to being able to travel free in first class, although we would constantly swap seats and standing places with each other. In our compartment a lady was travelling with her daughter who appeared to belong to high society, and I assumed they were Italian aristocrats. She had a wonderful heraldic ring, manufactured in gold, on one of her fingers. She regretted that we had to go to war and told us that she was from Ostend and was travelling to Switzerland. I asked her whether she was Italian or Swiss. ‘That’s doesn’t matter’ was her answer. Her daughter
let slip the remark ‘We are from Paris’, and, as a consequence, they had a long unwanted stop at the next checkpoint.
Next morning, I reached my garrison and reported to 2nd Bavarian Uhlan regiment: it was ready to march. I could not go with them as the regimental doctor refused to declare me fit for duty after inspecting my injury. What to do now? I drew up my plan quickly. I tried my luck again with the 2nd Bavarian heavy cavalry regiment in Munich. On the way to the station a schoolfriend told me that, yesterday, my five brothers had gone into the field. ‘And I can end up anywhere’, I thought wrathfully. I departed full of expectation and reported with my military pass to the Munich station commander. Nobody knew that I had been declared unfit for duty when I had arrived in Munich. At the station entrance I encountered Mr Erzellenz from the military service, who knew me previously. I stated my request and Erzellenz promised to do what he could for me.
In the Heavy Cavalry Barracks
The next morning I reported to the regimental office of the 1st heavy cavalry regiment and, thanks to the recommendations of Erzellenz, was accepted and able to break in horses. No further investigation took place and I took care to say nothing about my injury. As one of the few Uhlans among the Swiss riders, I had to swallow some jibes, for in peace the tradition holds: ‘My own regiment is the most splendid and best’. My sergeant was not good at speaking to me and always allocated me horses to ride that were not the best in the troop.
The horses that remained in the barracks were understandably in a bad way, like horses with saddle aversion, runaways or stayers. Often, when such an animal was assigned, I heard the remark: ‘Only he who rides with a heavy cavalryman is ashamed of an Uhlan.’ After some weeks of tiring service I was appointed despatch rider for the List regiment for 2nd and 6th heavy cavalry, composed entirely of active serving men.
With the List Regiment
My task for the time being was breaking in the officers’ service horses, which was no small task, for some days I had six to eight horses to ride. The regiment consisted mainly of volunteers, mostly students, with whom I got on well. From none did I hear remarks which suggested what they hoped to do when they were back.
We had all become friends when on 20 October 1914 the division marched off in the direction of Lechfeld for a three-day battle. In Bavarian Swabia, where we set up quarters, more horses were purchased for the regiment, and my expertise with horses came in useful.
The following Thursday I passed the village blacksmith. A gypsy cantered up to the blacksmith on a wonderful grey and appeared to me intent on selling the animal. It was a definite cavalry horse, with a beautiful saddle position and good legs, although exhausted and underfed. Straightaway I was interested in the horse and I decided to speak to our veterinary surgeon about buying her for the regiment.
Some hours later I visited the blacksmith and asked whether he had struck a deal with the gypsy. The blacksmith said: ‘I have bought the horse without a guarantee, it has been lame on the front leg for half a year and is not to be put into harness, but I will find a buyer straightaway.’ I examined the horse’s legs but could not find any damaged tendons or hoof disease. On my request the master gave me permission to try out the horse; quickly I fetched my saddle and rode her in free, open country. After riding I already knew what the horse was missing, she was a ‘passer’ which meant it rode along on the wrong foot and thus displayed an unequal gait. Through horsemanship I forced her into a normal step. To be on the safe side, I went back via the blacksmith and lead the horse by the rein because, if the blacksmith saw how the horse was with the rider, he would certainly have demanded a higher price. This was all in the interest of the regiment. The
blacksmith came to me asking, ‘Is she very lame?’ ‘Yes, she is still lame but she can still be used as a service horse.’ Some hours later the horse was purchased by the regiment at a cheap price and was sent to my quarters as my despatch horse.
In Bavarian Swabia, I encountered Adolf Hitler for the first time. I did not know him, but in passing he stood out because of his energetic expression and individual nature. I considered him highly academic as he listened to so many of the List regiment. The next day I saw him for the second time, as he played around with his weapon. He viewed it with great delight, which I had to laugh at in secret.
March to the Front
After sharpshooting in Lechfield, we were entrained and travelled towards the enemy. Nobody in the List regiment suspected how many would come to rest under foreign soil over the next two weeks. Joy shone from every eye that the waiting was finally over – we were on our way. We travelled through Württemberg, Baden and the beautiful Rhineland; at each stop we were very well looked after, the people of the Rhine putting their greatest hope in us Bavarians, and many delicacies, cigars and cigarettes were passed to us by the friendly young ladies of the Rhine. Enthusiastically we took in the beautiful district because many had not seen the Rhine before. ‘The French cannot come here. Even if we all have to perish.’
Towards evening our train passed the border at Autumn Valley. We saw immediately from the faces of the Belgian population that we were now in enemy territory. Outside and around Liège the first traces of the war were evident: burned out houses, torn up streets, trees shot to pieces. We reached Brussels the following afternoon and at midnight on the journey to Lille we heard the first thunder of cannon.
The troops lay snoozing in the train, pressed up tightly together, as we despatch riders prepared our horses in camp. My horse was the only one that was comfortable and lay next to me; I used its neck as a pillow and we must have both slept well, for when I awoke, it was already daylight and a comrade told me that we were outside Lille.
At 8 o’clock we unloaded; we were received by terrible cannon thunder but the morale of the troops was good, one could clearly notice the gallows humour of many which hid the initial fear. We despatch riders and combat staff were accommodated in the hippodrome, while the battalions took over most schools and other buildings.
When I went, in the afternoon, with an order for Regimental Sergeant Umann, now director of the party publishing company and Eher’s successor, who had set up his office in a classroom, I again encountered Adolf Hitler. He was close to Lille high school, which, in previous battles, had been shot up. Hitler looked at the devastation keenly with a comrade. Weapon in hand, helmet on his head, with moustache hanging down, he was the picture of a real farm worker. As an active soldier, I recognised in him immediately a born soldier and thought to myself, with him we can succeed.
An orderly, who had known Adolf Hitler longer, answered my question as to whether he knew this Austrian infantryman, a fine chap and, on my question as to why an Austrian was serving in a Bavarian regiment, he answered, ‘As far as I know, he was supposed to report to the Austrian consulate upon mobilisation, but went instead to the Austrian king, who personally gave him permission to serve in the Bavarian army.’ To my further question as to what Hitler’s job was, he replied that he could not say, but as far as he knew, he could do anything.
We stayed for some days in the centre of Lille and during this time we had the opportunity to get to know the civilian population better; they were certainly not hostile, especially the beautiful Lille girls who knew how to flirt with German boys. When I asked the daughter of a Lille citizen why she could not be angry with German soldiers, she answered, ‘I like German soldiers a lot. You know, sir, love knows no country.’
On the last day before our departure for the front, I rode my horse once again to test out whether I could rely on a hard ride. Good care and rich feed during the last ten days had brought an animal like this to its peak as I had sensed while riding, my ‘girl’ was now stable, she went like a gazelle under me. In these last days I romped around the suburbs of Lille on my horse and there were admiring and curious looks and comments like, ‘That is a French horse. Perhaps it has been stolen by the Germans.’
On this ride I encountered my Regimental Colonel, List. He stopped me, ‘Are you despatch rider Mend?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘I need a reliable despatch, my adjutant is not good with horses, from now on you are to be at my disposal.’ ‘Yes, Colonel’. I was pleased and stayed by his side from this time on.
The next day, at midnight, the regiment marched through the Lille forts around St Andrée and through Belgian-French Comines to Wervik. There we had quarters but there was no water and it wasn’t until nearly evening that my horse was able to get a drink at a farm. We were not there long as a Prussian hussar thundered over with the order to clear the farm as heavy English fire threatened, and we had hardly got 200yd away when the first 35s exploded.
I could not wait until after the English firing had stopped in the evening to see the civilians, the inhabitants of the farm. Unfortunately, the shells had done their bloody work. The husband lay on the stairs, the wife with the little child horribly silent in a pit, I could find no trace of the old woman, probably she lay under the ruins of the house. Searching further I found two officer orderlies with their horses, some distance away a third horse was horribly whinnying with pain, whereupon I put it out of its misery. My own horse became very unsettled at this and attempted to flee. For the first time I saw the terror of war.
Toward evening the regiment stood on high alert. We fetched straw and prepared the camp for the night. My ‘girl’, who I had tied to a tree, woke me after a short sleep, while she sniffed around my face. I knew what she wanted and, despite the strictest orders, I removed the heavily packed saddle and immediately made her comfortable on it at my side.
The morning was for many of my comrades their last awakening. The sky flamed red from the fire from shot-up villages. The order to move off had arrived. I rode at the head of the regiment, in order to look for Colonel List. Among the orderlies I noticed Adolf Hitler. He had moved a bit ahead, a smile on his lips. When I saw Hitler for the first time, I thought what would this slight man do if he should have to carry a fieldpack? I had changed my view. For, as it later transpired, there only a very few in the regiment as resilient and fit as Hitler. With unbelievable toughness he endured the greatest strains and never allowed weakness to show.
The combat orderlies to whom Hitler also belonged were much more exposed to enemy fire than the companies themselves, because, while the latter could again and again take cover on the ground, the orderlies were
always on the move with despatches, and I am amazed even to this day that Adolf Hitler was fortunate enough to survive this.
Death of Colonel List
The next day the regiment marched in the direction of Wytschaete and was deployed at Béthune. But, after a few days, we had to be pulled out of the position. Complete companies were torn to pieces. One non-commissioned officer battalion commander, Regimental Doctor Rühl, took over command of the regiment. Not far from the firing line, behind a small hill, I stopped by the supply depot when I got the order to ride to Colonel List at Hollebeke chateau. I looked on the map for Hollebeke chateau and rode off. The road over there was shot-up by the English with shells of all types. I chased away on my horse across trenches, fenced in pastures, hedges. It was as if the good animal knew it was a matter of life and death. Everywhere fallen soldiers lay around and I saw a number of things that I would not want to describe. The castle was already greatly weakened by English shelling. In the rooms many pieces of English equipment were to be found. To all intents and purposes they had fled in a hurry. Colonel List was talking with an officer of the Saxon troops, who had dug a trench at Hollebeke chateau, when I reported. My commander made the Saxons aware that they should dig the trenches deep as the ground around Hollebeke would probably come under heavy English artillery fire again. A cheerful Saxon answered the colonel, ‘Colonel, I am as ready as if today we were gathering for Ascension Day.’ Colonel List nodded and said nothing more about it. Even to my question as to how our troops were, he gave no answer, he just looked at me and turned away. Suddenly he asked, ‘Mend, where have you put your horse?’ ‘In a room behind the castle, Colonel.’ ‘Get ready and ride back, perhaps you will find my batman, he should come to me with the horses.’
I ran around the castle to my ‘girl’. As soon as I got there, however, three heavy English shells struck the building. I could not see anything else, or even breathe because of the dust. With the greatest effort I shoved my horse out backwards and also heard calls for help from the other side of the castle. One shell had struck a group of Saxons who were busy digging the trench.
Some radio operators immediately sprang to the aid of the wounded. At once one of them cried, ‘The Bavarian Colonel is also dead!’ In my terror I left my horse standing and sprinted over to Colonel List. He was already covered with a canvas sheet. I lifted it up and just saw the blood flowing from his mouth. I could not comrpehend that our brave commander, who was a true leader of his troops, was no more.
I immediately left Hollebeke and set off to look for Colonel List’s batman. He was not at the supply depot, where most of the batmen stopped. I rode up again to the castle and encountered him on the way there. ‘Has anything happened to Colonel List?’ When I told him that he had fallen at Hollebeke, he cried like a child.
One of the most dangerous places for Adolf Hitler, which he had to visit as combat orderly, was the narrow pass in Wytschaete. When I arrived there during the battle with a message, I saw a terrible sight. The company was dug in on the embankment on both sides, to a certain extent protected from shell splinters. Lieutenant Schmidt lay critically ill in a foxhole, his body copper-coloured with fever. His men stretched a canvas sheet over him and by summoning up his last strength he held his company together and gave orders.
The narrow passage was strewn with the dead and wounded. On 2 November alone 119 were counted dead there. From here Adolf Hitler had to deliver his messages. How he succeeded then, forcing himself through the incessant artillery fire, is still incomprehensible to me today. The few minutes in which I was stopped in the narrow passage almost cost me and my horse our lives, for while I waited to give my message to the critically ill lieutenant, who was the only officer present in the narrow passage, an enemy salvo struck and killed several comrades. As the message was not intended for Lieutenant Schmidt, he refused to accept it and sent me to Groene Linde. I was glad to be allowed to leave the narrow passage, in which there was only blood and dead and dying comrades. Hardly had I mounted and set off than a second salvo struck the narrow passage, which, from the testimony of one surviving comrade, killed seventeen men. Under the terrible fire from Hollebeke to Groene Linde my horse drove on, avoiding every obstacle. When I reached the place, most of the houses
stood in flames. In the wall of one house stood a 35.5cm shell, which had not exploded. Nearby on the street lay shot-up vehicles with dead soldiers and horses. A despatch rider galloped past at top speed. His horse had been shot and was bleeding profusely. While I was getting my bearings on the map, a motorcycle despatch rider arrived and seeing me, asked where he could find orderlies. Some 100m from Groene Linde an artilleryman lay with his badly wounded horse. The horse was in fact dead and if the artillery man was not given medical assistance he would die. I rode immediately to one of our batteries, which was firing at Groene Linde, and advised the doctor to send some orderlies with a stretcher to the artilleryman. Adolf Hitler had, on this day, achieved amazing things and was one of those decorated after the battle with the Iron Cross, Second Class.
On 4 November we returned again to Wervik and I looked for my old quarters. The people had thought us dead. ‘Today, I prayed at Mass, that all those good boys who were at our house, had not been shot and will return’, said the daughter of the people I was billeted with. The mother gave up her bed for me, so that I could change and have a good sleep. They themselves made do with a straw mattress on the floor, these blonde Flemish people who thought of us as nothing like the Barbarians that other people liked to pass us off as.
After some days of rest in Wervik, we went back to Comines with the 6th reserve division, and there all the quarters were occupied. We spent the night out in the open, soldiers and horses suffering in the damp, cold, autumn weather and many becoming ill. Continuously troops pushed through the place, and I once heard a local civilian comment, ‘We believe in Germany there is a soldier factory.’ A Belgian dentist remarked to me, ‘Before the German army marched in here, they said that it would be largely destroyed on the Marne and now they come to us in their legions.’ He sighed and said to himself, ‘My god, our poor Fatherland is lost.’
The population were not as inwardly hostile as we had expected. Mainly small businesspeople and the poorer population came to us to trade. Our troops happily put money in their pockets and some shopkeepers made a fortune from our garrison.
One day Adolf Hitler approached me in front of the spinning mill in which, after the move, the various troops from the majority of our regiments were accommodated. He had put on the message bag and, with his quick, purposeful walk, you could assume that he brought with him an important report about the situation regarding the shelling. His uniform, particularly at the knees, was thick with clay. While I still contemplated what he might encounter in the forward position, although the regiment lay at rest, he disappeared through the gate in the spinning mill.
My horse was suffering from a heavy cold, as once again I spent the night out in the open. I actively went to look for quarters. The last house on the Comines–Warneton road, quite near the cemetery, was a cafe called ‘The Gravedigger’. I wanted to drink a cup of coffee but had to force my way through soldiers.
It was often like this on the march to or return from the front. Many took the necessary courage from several schnapps before they marched to the firing. Madame Culier, the owner, never left anything to chance, she earned a pretty penny from us soldiers; her beautiful daughter served at the bar and many a jealous look flew from one to another if she talked a bit longer than normal with a comrade. In the kitchen there was always a little warm place and she took many a poor devil, wet through from the front, out into the kitchen, so that he could dry off and warm up.
‘I should have my quarters here’, I thought to myself and was lucky. After some toing and froing, my French-speaking abilities assisting me, I acquired a little room and my horse a warm stable together with Mr Hugo, the gravedigger.
One evening when I was walking across the Ypres Canal bridge, I got two messages from Dr Rühl. One was to the regimental doctor of 17th Bavarian reserve infantry regiment in the field hospital at Comines; the second was to the divisional doctor in Warneton. I returned, saddled up my horse and rode first to the field hospital at Comines. It was dark when I gave my message to an orderly there. While I was waiting for an answer, heavy calibre English shells struck the field hospital, killing many wounded as well as some Belgian monks, who had remained in the converted monastery. Above me fell a shower of bricks and dust.
The inner monastery presented a hideous sight. Of the wounded lying on the ground, there remained not one alive. The whole room was yellow from sulphur shells. Nuns carried their dead sisters past and prayed. Despite all the trouble, I could no longer find the orderly who was supposed to bring me an answer.
I mounted up and rode with my second message to Warneton. The night was dark and only with difficulty could I make my way through the streets with my horse, for vehicles of all types, munitions columns and equipment wagons which were bringing material for the reinforcement of the positions at the front were accumulated here. Now and again some lights could be seen in the shot-up houses; everything made a ghostly impression. To my enquiry to an orderly I got the answer that the divisional doctor was at the dressing station. Handing over my message, I looked again at the church, in which many wounded lay illuminated by faint candlelight, groaning and wracked with pain. Having returned to my quarters I fell into a deep sleep from which Mr Hugo had to wake me the next day.
Daily at daybreak, the kilometre-long columns of vehicles moved to the sections of the front, bringing material there for its reconstruction. The French vehicles, stuck in the middle of the wrecked streets, were in such bad condition that it sometimes appeared impossible to even get forward with a horse and cart. Deep holes were encountered on the side roads, so that the vehicles often got stuck in them or overturned. In the ditches lay various vehicles, cars, munitions wagons, bicycles and such like.
One evening I happened upon a field kitchen which had had the good fortune to avoid the more dangerous position between Warneton and Osterwerne: but its precious contents was being distributed all along the ditches and circulating the most marvellous odours. The officer responsible for the kitchen addressed the driver with words which were scarcely to be found in a German dictionary. He knew too well how he would be received in the position if he were to arrive with empty pans. With united strength we succeeded in making the goulash stove quick and efficient again. The cauldron was heated up and filled once more.
‘Franz, if you throw the cooking pot into the ditch again, then I shall shoot you,’ was the warning with which the non-commissioned officer dismissed
the driver. Scenes such as these were repeated now and again on this street.
An overturned munitions wagon at the entrance to the town bore witness to the heavy shelling of recent days. Four horses lay terribly torn up next to the wagon with glazed eyes and tongues hanging out. In the monastery of Wytschaete I found Colonel Engelhardt, the first successor to the brave Colonel List, lying on a bed in the cellar, badly wounded. Around him stood some orderlies. When he heard that I had a message for him, he bade me enter, accepted it and gave me some cigars, before dismissing me.
In the greatest pain, Colonel Engelhardt did his duty as commander, and if today there are Germans who belittle the achievements of our front-line officers, I would like to point out that most of our officers went through the same stresses as us and to their last breath upheld their responsibilities.
With Adolf Hitler in Wytschaete
Our regimental headquarters was in the monastery at Wytschaete, and the orderlies and despatch riders went in and out of there daily. It is unbelievable what was achieved by them in those days, and whoever came out of this witches’ cauldron uninjured was a matter of luck. Among these few was Adolf Hitler. One bright day, under heavy shell and machine-gun fire, which troops in their foxholes hardly daring to lift their heads, he was moving around with messages from the monastery to the front line. When I happened to ride towards him, he laughed at me, as if he wanted to say, ‘Don’t get any grand ideas, just because you are a despatch rider. We achieve just as much as you!’
Once I was there as he was having a dispute with another orderly, who spoke of the great dangers the patrols were constantly placed under. Hitler, who could not stand a show-off and who himself never gave an indication even if he was faring badly, said angrily, ‘If any of us orderlies were such a chicken like you, the colonel could bring over his own messages. I believe you are suffering from shellshock.’
After days of heavy losses, we moved into Comines and I quartered myself again at Madame Culier’s. During these days of rest the first vaccinations were administered and, in fact, in the spinning mill in which the regiment was accommodated earlier. I was given the order to look for replacement Officer Stephan’s trench, who was presumed missing, and whose parents wanted to bring their son home. I looked in every trench in our original positions at Becelaere, but in vain. Completely soaked, I came back to Comines just as night was falling and was greeted by terrible screaming in the orderly sergeant’s spinning mill. ‘If you come immediately for vaccinating, perhaps you will get an extra sausage roasted.’ I stood the plaster boxes down, half-frozen and wet through, accepting I should get myself vaccinated. The event was naturally reported to the colonel who in
fact the same day spared me the procedure, but the next they caught up with me.
Bethlehem’s Farm
We were now under the third Regimental Commander, First Lieutenant Betz. At night the regiment was put into the left of Messines at Bethlehem’s Farm. After the English had firmly entrenched themselves on the Kemmelberg and had showered us with shells during the day, we Germans were not up to organising much. The Kemmelberg was a natural fortress and our artillery heavily engaged the enemy. We, in the valley, were subjected to the heaviest fire because the positions in this part of the front were not yet reinforced and our ‘Listers’ sometimes stood up to their knees in water. When, at night, we moved into the farm as the regiment’s quarters, a non-commissioned officer said to me, ‘If you want to be alive tomorrow, then come out as quick as possible, as the English batteries have been looking for our positions already all afternoon and many shells have exploded close by us. Today they have already battered the farm with shrapnel’.
We fetched straw bales and barricaded the barn, because a radio operator had already been badly wounded by a rifle bullet. In the early hours First Lieutenant Betz gave me the order to ride to the monastery in Messines and take a message to the artillery position. ‘My dear Mend, come back to me again but avoid the streets when possible.’ With these words he dismissed me.
Shot after shot struck the stone streets and although my commander had only marked two crosses on my message, my horse chased there as if it was six. At the foot of the hill, on whose top Messines lay, I let my brave animal have a breather and then set off again. The officer, to whom I gave my message, was astonished that I had got through this firing without being wounded. ‘As long as I ride my horse, nothing will happen, she is my talisman.’
It was a bright day when I got back to Bethlehem’s Farm. The despatch riders who, days before were ready to take the baton at the farm, got the message to stop in Messines monastery in order to be at the disposal of the battalion commanders; only Hitler, Schmidt, myself and some other orderlies, some nurses and the doctor remained with the commander. Two nurses took over the cook’s office. An abandoned pig which was running around was supposed to be slaughtered but would not allow itself to be caught; it fled from the farm out into the street and so it did not evade being roasted, the cook shot after the escapee. Because of this lack of care our enemy noticed that there were still troops in the farm and a short time later the farm came under fire. The first shells struck a shed and immediately killed more radio operators. We wanted to bury the dead straightaway and dug a few graves in the garden, while the doctor, Fischer, and Adolf Hitler made crosses out of wood for the dead. The doctor came to us and said: ‘I think we should dig a few more graves straightaway in case none of us survive this hell. It is possible that I am now making my own cross?’
First Lieutenant Betz came into the garden to see the dead and gave me a message for Warneton. On the way I heard shell blasts and recognised, from the pillars of smoke, that they had exploded in the yard. At full gallop I rode to Warneton, handed over my message and returned at the same pace. When I rode into the burning yard, First Lieutenant Betz was stood there with a grim face and gave orders to the survivors. I reported to him, ‘Order carried out.’
The brim of his cap was lowered and an epaulette had been torn away by a shell splinter. He went into the stables and standing at the door he called me, ‘Mend, shoot the wounded horses!’ I fetched the wounded animals out one after another and relieved them from their pain by a shot to the head. In the barn lay many dead comrades, among them Dr Fischer, he really had made his own cross. The nurses were busy bandaging the wounded and the orderlies were taking over the burying of the dead in the garden.
How Adolf Hitler came out of this hell is still a puzzle to me today. All I know is that he was present at the farm and had slung on his canteen, weapon on his arm, expecting orders in the barn. Whether during the shooting he had been sent away with a message or was spared by the shells,
I do not know. Some days later I was chatting in Messines about events, expressing my amazement that I was still alive, and laughingly called to him, ‘Hey, there’s no bullet with your name on it!’ He answered with a smile.
When we were later in our quarters, we often thought of the terrible days at Bethlehem’s Farm.
